To get the most out of life,
one must reach for the sky,
or so they say.
Nah, that’s not for me.
I’ll reach for the sky, sure,
but I won’t stop there.
Once I reach the sky, I’ll reach for the moon
Once I reach the moon, I’ll reach for the stars
Once I reach the stars, I’ll reach for the galaxy
Once I reach the galaxy, I’ll teach for the universe
Once I reach the universe, I’ll high five God.
But God shakes his head with a wispy smile,
touches me gently on my shoulder,
He tells me:
“Your universe isn’t out there,
It’s back on Earth so–”
I interrupt God
but I quickly apologize
(in fear that He’ll strike me with bolts)
and I respond back to him:
“Look right behind me
for I brought my universe
along for the ride,
the friends and family
who moved me
who shook me
who dared me
who inspired me
who motivated me
who loved me.
They’re all here,
here to stay
for without them,
I wouldn’t have been able to high five you!”
I like to tell myself that I’m a loving person,
be inspired to aspire peacefully
like Jesus, Muhammad, and Buddha,
be a giving man with a big heart and a big soul.
But like a C-movie horror flick,
green yucky spores of envy grow onto me
and I end up looking like the jolly green average-sized man.
I do my best to squash the spores
but end up devouring it in panic
so if you wonder why it seems
like I have a fake restrained smile
or my voice pitch is two octaves too high,
I’m just not enjoying the taste of spores too well.
When a fellow artist friend,
who was on my level of reputation,
moves past me and makes something of themselves,
I find I have to make an effort
to genuinely congratulate them.
Green spores on my shoulders.
When an average looking guy friend
gets a hot girlfriend
and not me,
I despise his good fortune
(even worse when I have the hots for her too).
Green spores on my chest.
When a complete douchebag or bitch that I despise
becomes more successful than me,
I choose to believe (or delude?)
that I am better than that trash
and people have yet to acknowledge my brilliance.
Green spores in my brain.
Must get pesticide.
is a powerful
A capoiera dancer warming up with graceful kicks,
A clown checking her makeup and tangerine wig,
A parent keeping their primly dressed daughter in high energy,
and good looking to character type men and women,
sitting anxiously around me.
We all want the same thing
and in the unison of our burning desire
I can feel the force strike me to the core,
I can hear our inner monologues of
“I hope I get it”
ringing and pulsating
like wild yearning fire.
The frantic nervous energy is absolutely
Eyes flare up
Heart beats faster
Taste buds kick into overdrive
Nostrils dance in glee
I see fresh Mrs. Fields cookies
Singing love ballads right before me.
As the magnificent employee
nearly scalds her finger tips
from touching the hot fresh cookies
I jump side to side,
barely able to hold still
to get the heavenly treats
inside my voracious belly.
One free give-me
for three cookies,
just for me?
Give me, give me!
The four delectable delights
crowd themselves into the bag
but end up toppling on top of each other,
making hot sex with each other,
and rapidly transform
into a ball of gooey love.
I reach my hand into
the cookie orgasm,
feeling the cookies breathing heavy,
tear the cooked dough out with passion,
and shred through the sweetness
like a sex deprived hyena.